Cecily
by Nico'sGirl
Summary: The idea for this story sort of fell from the sky and hit me on the head. Which would explain a lot of things. This is the end of The Sweet Far Thing from the POV of Cecily. I changed the ending so Kartik doesn't die, of course. Only 3 chapters. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters seen here, or the plot of this story

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters seen here, or the plot of this story. I do own the ending and the fact that this is from Cecily Temple's point of view. Okay, so I own all the plot of this that is not featured in the book. Love, Nico'sGirl. (And PLEEEEEEEEZ R&R!! 3 3 3

I watch Gemma and her little gang, pretending not to be interested, but really searching desperately to find any flaw in their doings. If I can appear smart and witty to Lizzie and Martha, then I will stay on top. Everything's better up here. And I really have to say, it's got a marvelous view. "Look." I whisper to Liz with a sneer. I'm really quite good at sneering. "They are playing _tiddledy-winks_. That's really such a childish game."

"Oh, indeed!" Liz agrees. But then again, Elizabeth Poole would agree with me if I told her the moon was made of thick cream cheese. Somehow, even though her reply should mean nothing to me, it means the world. I need attention, crave it even. I don't care if I'm really wrong, I still need always for someone to tell me that I'm right.

Lizzie is looking at me, awaiting another scathing comment. "Who do you suppose gave darling old Fee that scarf?" I start out casually, but my tone turns malicious soon enough. "Her _grandmother_?"

"Ooh, Cec!" Lizzie giggles, thrilled by my audacity. This only urges me to be ruder. How else should I react, if I can make someone so very excited only by being so impudent?

"Really, the last time a scarf like that was in fashion was during the Renaissance!" I purr. I love the way my voice sounds, in all its different moods. Angry, romantic, cynical, joyful, I never tire of it. Sometimes, when I am alone, I speak of nonsense, just to hear the sound.

I watch with an unforgiving glare as Gemma suddenly becomes very interested in what Brigid is telling the girls, as well as the rest of her posse, old Nightwing, and Ms.McCleethy. "See that, Liz? You can tell someone's unsophisticated when they get chummy with the help." Liz nods solemnly, trying to mimic my look of disdain.

Suddenly, amid the little girls' protests, Brigid gets up ad goes to the kitchen. I am surprised when McCleethy and Gemma follow.

"Where do they think they're skulking off to?" I mutter under my breath, not loud enough for Lizzie to hear, but I'm sure she would love to and give some sign of agreement. Martha stops her needlework by the fire and walks over to Lizzie and me.

"Did you see that?" she gushes. Martha has always gushed and gooed, and she will gush and goo forevermore. This is because everything, to her, is exciting. Everything is scandalous. Every little thing deserves to be gushed about. Martha is not the brightest girl. She is taken aback by everything. She is excited to be my friend. She is excited by the strawberry jam at breakfast. Martha is excited just to be alive. "What do you think they're up to?" She giggles at God knows what. Whereas I would have looked disgusted and haughty, she looks as if she would commit murder to find out what's going on in that kitchen.

"I don't know. Probably getting some sort of food. Maybe they've decided it's time to cook up and serve her for tomorrow night's dinner. She's certainly spent a while getting fattened up." Martha and Liz both giggle, Martha a bit louder and more enthusiastically.

The doors to the hall open wide, and for once in my life, I am speechless at what I see. Gemma sweeps into the room and by her side are Mother Elena, frail and wrapped in brightly shimmering fabrics, and a young Indian man, whom I have seen before with the Gypsies. Even though I would never stoop so low as to even speak to him, I still find myself admiring how muscular he is. I am only human. No, only woman.

They carry bowls, the contents of which I cannot see. They distribute the pewter containers to Felicity, Ann, and Nightwing. Martha gets up immediately and almost runs to the strange scene, along with many others. I follow at a slower, more ladylike pace, tugging Liz along by the hand, for she is far to timid to come of her own will, no matter how hotly the curiosity inside her burns.

"Cec," she whimpers, "What's going on? Why are the Gypsies here?"

"I don't know." I say, trying to be patient with her, but sometimes, she vexes me so. "We will find out."

Those with bowls go to the windows and doors and begin to paint over and around them with a reddish mixture. It looks like blood and I feel a faint nausea clawing at my stomach. Brigid also tucks sprigs of some sort of plant onto the sills while clutching her cross. I desperately want to say something, but like all the other girls I cannot bring myself to speak.

Finally, a little girl with an absurd pink hair ribbon asks in a voice that hints she is near tears ask, "Brigid, what are you doing?"

"Never you mind, dearie," she says.

"But Brigid-" the girl frantically interrupts.

"It's a game!" Gemma says with a big, fake smile. She throws a glance at Brigid.

The young girls clap, and I really can't imagine why. "What sort of game?"

Gemma explains we have to mark the entrances to keep the dwarves out, or something of the like. I really don't care to hear. "Something's amiss, there's a thing she's not telling us, I can feel it." I say to Lizzie, under the cover of the girls' excited tittering.

"But… Cec..." Liz says faintly, unsure of what to do when her own genuine opinion is needed. "She said its only a game, really…" She peers into the pot. "What is this?" she whines to Gemma, "It looks like blood."

I wrinkle my nose. "Really, Mrs.Nightwing. It's unchristian." I sniff.

Of course, those vile children all want a look at the blood. "Don't be ridiculous! It's nothing more than sherry and molasses."

"Doesn't smell like molasses or sherry." Liz mutters.

Brigid pours the mixture into small cups for each of us and we all dutifully go and paint the windows, some of us more grudgingly than others. Soon every windo is marked. Outside, night has fallen, but Nightwing won't let us retire yet. She says e must wait until midnight.

"It's all just insane," I growl to Martha as we crochet doilies, "Staying until midnight in this hall, painting the windows, and having those _Gypsies_ even in the building at all… It's just … vile."

"Oh, indeed. Look, Gemma is even holding that old witch's hand." Martha's tone matches my own, for once. "Maybe if we're lucky she'll catch some disease from her, and then she'll be gone once and for all."

We all titter and are silent for a while, concentrating on our work. The time passes and all the young girls are asleep by eleven o'clock. Even Lizzie is starting to nod off. Martha and I whisper when we speak, so as not to wake her. Suddenly, Gemma sits bolt upright. The room is so still and quiet that I can hear exactly what she will say from where I am, but I lean closer anyway.

"What is it?" Brigid asks. McCleethy shushes her.

Gemma says nothing in reply, but outside I hear the sound of horses, and the caw of a crow. At the sharp noise, some girls rouse from their sleep, moving, but staying quiet, thoughtful, listening. Mother Elena raises her withered head. "They have come."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. But I do own everything featured here that isn't in the book. I own my dogs and cats and horses. I own my house and multiple other things! Take THAT Libba Bray! PLEEZ R&R. Love, Nico'sGirl

What on Earth does that old hag mean? Does she mean what I think she does? What do I think she means? I'm frightened by this more than anything. Here, for once, I am just as lost as everyone else. I have no opinion. And without my opinion, I am nothing. Trying to show how little I care, I go back to my needlework. "Crazy witch." I mutter just loud enough for Lizzie to hear.

But Lizzie says nothing. She isn't looking at me. She hasn't heard me. That's odd; she usually hangs on my every word, loving my opinion as much as I do. _Why Liz,_ I think, _when did you grow ever so bold? Thinking for yourself now dear? Don't want to strain a muscle. _I giggle. Martha looks at me like I've sprouted a second head.

"Their power is strong," the Gypsy witch howls, "They will not stop until they have what they want." Her cloudy gaze rests on Gemma. Who would want that uncivilized excuse of a girl? Not even the pigs want to share their sty with her.

McCleethy is on her feet at once. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. A horse. A cow. It could be nothing." Suddenly, I find I've grown tired of her. She was quite novel at first, teaching them archery and whatnot, her strange brogue a new and fascinating thing. But now, her strange spoke only vexes me further in this absurd situation. I'm not nice when I am vexed. People get hurt.

Nightwing says, "You promised there would be no danger…"

"I am not convinced that there was danger at all save for what has happened to Miss Doyle's mind." McCleethy snaps, angered by her friend's rebellion. I can understand her dismay.

The animal sounds continue. Some game this is. I don't believe I signed up for magical pixie hunt or Old McCleethy Had a Farm.

Lizzie yawns. "What is it? What's the matter?" She's gown as bored as I have of this display and her rapt alertness is fading.

One of the girls cry out, "Mrs. Nightwing, can't we please go to bed now?"

Nightwing shushes her. "Our game will only end after midnight."

McCleethy says something in a lower tone to a man standing by the door. I draw in a breath. I didn't see _him_ come in! But then again, it turns out this night is full of surprises. He sticks his head behind the drapes, then returns and says something else to McCleethy. I'm even more surprised when I see the angry scar slashing the length of his cheek. No, not angry. Bloody _furious_. _Oh, Cec!_ I purr to myself, _At it again with that language, you bad girl! _Gemma and the rest gather their heads and whisper. I long to lean closer, to get up and move so I can hear them, but I musn't seem too eager.

Nightwing turns pale as cheese and her eyes fixate upon those ghastly columns. I thought they were gorgeous in a medieval way, but ever since Gemma came, they seemed gruesome and angry. Just another example of how she muddles things so.

I watch the column along with them, wondering what they're getting at. Then I see it. The creatures engraved into the white alabaster, they stretch and groan and creep. It's late, I am seeing things. But no, this is too real. This is no hallucination. I feel like my lips are sewn shut, but still I jostle Martha and Lizzie. Martha's eyes snap open, but Liz lets out a faint moan of protest.

A forest spirit, a nymph I think, drops to the ground. "Hello, darlings! Time for the sacrifice." She hisses.

Other things plop down beside her. They chant "It is time for the sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…" With a flash and pop, lanterns explode, the bare flames left to tongue the walls. More creatures come from the column. Everyone is awake now and chaos ensues. All the girls flee to Mrs. Nightwing. All my fears come rushing back to me in a wave. I scream, wail my sorrows, the pure noise of my voice starting to calm me. It appears I have drifted into a parallel universe. But if I have my voice here, it can't be all that bad. Of course, Martha and Liz taint my joy by adding their frantic voices into the mix. McCleethy, Nightwing, the scarred man, and Brigid all hustle children to the doors and rest follow in a crowd. Fee and lard container we call Ann are already outside in the hall. "Gemma!" They call, waving their arms. She and that Indian scum are still by the fireplace, with the nymph. He clutches her hand and pulls her away from the nymph.

I've come to realize, just now, that my petty side does not die when I am afraid, but instead becomes sharper still. But for God's sake, he's holding her hand! I should have known Gemma would do something like this. Get entangled with a heathen she has! _He suits her,_ I sneer to myself, _they're both disgusting creatures from India._ He cries out "Your right!" And of course she parries to the left with a fireplace poker. The creature grabs her hair and she screeches, stabbing it. They run with their filthy fingers intertwined and slam the doors shut behind them. "I said your right." He pants.

Then it comes. My rudeness forgotten, the fear hits me. I open my mouth a scream. Lizzie and Martha join in.

"No!" Mother Elena shouts at something Fee has said. "She mustn't. It cannot be trusted. There is no balance from the dark! No balance." I don't understand what she says, but it frightens me with all her talk of darkness. I scream again, longer, alone, until I'm sure my face is blue. I don't hear what is said after. I don't want to. I just want whatever is happening to be over.

The hall is dark, lit only by Nightwing and McCleethy's lanterns. I don't really pay attention to what they are saying; my tears are so thick I can barely hear anything over my own sobs. It sounds as if their debating whether or not to leave the building and go to the chapel. I would have already thrown myself out these doors long ago if the combined weight of Ann and Brigid didn't block the way. Of course, everyone here would be halfway to London if Nightwing only let us. Blasted Nightwing! "What is happening?!" I choke out between my sobs.

Nightwing infuriates me. "It's part of our pixies game." She says tartly.

Liz infuriates me further when she cries out, "I don't want to play anymore!" Stupid girl! Only a stupid girl would say something as juvenile as that! She would be nothing without me; I made her who she is. This is why she must never speak, why she must never give her own opinion, but instead heed to the will of others. Because to speak and be respected when you do so, you must be smart. You usually had to be at least somewhat pretty. And above all, if you wanted people to agree with you, you must be strong, willful. Liz is not smart enough. She is not pretty enough by far. Her willpower resembles that of a sheep.

"There, there." Nightwing drones, "You must be a brave girl. It's only a game and whoever proves bravest shall have a prize." I could slap her now, certainly.

"Follow me to the chapel, girls!" McCleethy hollers. I gasp with relief and push my way outside, into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own no books by Libba Bray

Disclaimer: I don't own no books by Libba Bray. All I gots is whatevers writtin here that's not in them bookies. Lovie dovie yall, Nico'sGurrrrrl

My once commanding presence is gone. I want to sink to my knees, to whimper, to wail, but I cannot. For what, I fear, lies in wait here, is more powerful and beastly than what attacked us within the Great Hall.

"I'm cold!" a little girl moans. She can't be more than six. The boy holds up his hand to signal us to halt. Unfortunately, I am in mid-step, so I run into him. He turns to throw me a nasty glare.

"What is it?" Scar-Man whispers. The boy nods to a little patch of trees. I see nothing. My eyes dart around, looking everywhere, trying to find something to distract me. But I see something odd. The shadows, they move live liquid silver, twisting and turning and undulating.

Gemma reaches out, to gently stroke one tree's bark and her hand comes away dusted with frost. A loud snort makes me jump, and soon a horse's muzzle makes itself known from behind the trees. Its nostrils flare. The horse is odd. It's almost as if I can see its skeletal structure, emanating from beneath its flesh. Its pulls forward and I see the outline of a ghostly rider. I cover my eyes with my hands, terrified. I hear a voice, smoky and cold. "_The sacrifice_…" it murmurs. Then I hear Gemma's scream. Perhaps the thing has eaten her. I peek between my fingers to see her bolting for the chapel for all she's worth. I suppose I am not so fortunate.

Nightwing bellows out commands to run to the chapel. She snuffs out her candle, and I stumble up the hill in the darkness. The fog is so thick I can barely see my hands in front of my face. Luckily, my years spent at this school remind me exactly of the way to the chapel. I try to ignore all the screeching and howling around me.

I dart into the chapel, panting, and cower up by the alter, along with the girls who have gotten there before me. A moaning Nightwing stumbles through the doors and heaves them shut behind her.

I approach; hoping my anger and confusion will rise from me like a steam and immerse them in my discontent. "Mrs. Nightwing, what is happening?" I intend for my voice to seethe, but it comes out like a wavering whine. I'm sure my eyes are teary, against my will.

"Let's not fall to pieces." She doesn't intone this with confidence, and she keeps glancing at Gemma, as if asking her if she should continue to instill hope in us, or admit that it's too late. "Come on. See to the younger girls." As if the fight and strength is drained from my body. I march to where the younger girls are huddled together, sobbing.

"Here, now." I murmur, crouching down beside them. I've a confession, it seems, to be made, considering I've not really much left to loose. I've always longed for a daughter. A little girl, who I would dress in beautiful close and sing to and love. But, when Fee excluded me from her social trust, I lost confidence in myself. I found myself becoming catty and bitter. When Fee and I were friends, I spent time playing with the younger girls, laughing, smiling. Now, Gemma has stolen my happiness from me, and now I have nothing left but my own audacity. But now, in the company of these little girls, I am my owl self again. "Now, girls," I croon, "This is all just a bad dream. It'll be over, and you'll wake up in the morning, and all will be bonny and well again." Most of them still sniffle but the others dry their tears.

"It's not real?" A little girl with blue eyes asks, her voice hopeful.

"Of course not, dearie." I whisper. It breaks my heart to lie to that little girl, but it's for her own good. "But, right now, you must be brave as you can. Don't cry, but be strong. It's all a dream. Just… play a game. Why don't you play some charades? Those are always good fun."

All the girls nod enthusiastically, and I force myself to smile. However, inside, I feel like I'm dying. The little girls are brightened; I did what I needed to do; now my -entire body feels as if it is deflating.

But the screams outside get louder. The girls halt signing out _Jane Eyre_. And let out little cries of fear. Gemma and the rest mutter in a large clump at the doorway, occasionally glancing up to look at us. We, not people, just a nameless group of girls, a responsibility.

"Don't you understand?" Gemma howls, "There are no rules anymore! I shall do as I bloody well see fit!" Everyone gasps. Once again, my audacity crawls back past the fearful stupor. That girl! That nasty, evil, vulgar, repulsive, thieving girl! Even a finishing school can't mold her into a respectable lady! My light and reasonable side tries to calm me. _Now, now Cec,_ it soothes, _your being as beastly as she! _As my anger recedes, quelled by my even greater hatred to be anything like that creature, the sorrow returns, making me sink to my knees beside Liz and Martha. The tears stream across my face till I can barely see. I wipe at my eyes and focus on what Gemma is saying to Nightwing.

"You've got a bit of protection should you need it." They both glance at the stained glass windows, the one of the warrior holding that awful greenish head.

"The windows?" I screech. What I have seen all night has been ridiculous, absurd, but this too much. Offering protection from a hideous chunk of glass is over my borders.

"You'll see." Is Gemma's ominous reply. No. I have seen enough things that I do not understand. I'm tired of being in the dark. I want to know the truth for once. I just want to know what is going on, no mystery, no forebodings.

"We'll see what?" I wail, "I don't want to see anything more! This is all your fault, Gemma Doyle. If we survive, nothing will ever be the same again!" It is. It's all her fault, she must realize. The way she broke my ankle to keep me from my calling as a ballet dancer, her childish pranks, and now all of this.

"I know. I'm sorry." I don't believe this. She is admitting her mistakes? For once, that proud Doyle girl is thinking of someone else beside herself and her friends? But still, this won't last; I know it, for she is always going back upon her word, changing her mind.

"I hate you!" I cry

"I know that too," she murmurs.

Another howl from outside and my mouth is shut. Nightwing pulls herself to her feet. "Come, girls, take up your hymnals. We shall sing."

"Oh, Mrs. Nightwing," Lizzie shrieks, "How can we sing?"

"They'll eat us alive!" Martha agrees.

"Nonsense!" Nightwing bellows, "We are perfectly safe in here. We are English,

and I expect you to behave as such. No more crying. Let us sing." I cannot believe her. How can she carry on, to try and convince us that there is nothing wrong? How can we sing while those things tear each other apart out on the lawn? But still, her enormous intones the tune of a familiar hymn into the stagnant air. Brigid joins in and then the little girls follow suit. But not I. I will not join in their senseless merriment. I will not go on like this is another prayer time. I will not forget why we are here at this late hour. I won't. I cannot.

While the others sing, I see Gemma, Ann, Fee, McCleethy, the Indian boy, and the scarred man slip outside. Oh, fantastic. Perhaps they will all be killed. Joy oh joy.

The hymn comes to an end and Nightwing begins another. We sing five more after this. Then, Nightwing sinks down with a moan, as if she cannot carry on. Mother Elena moves back and forth weaving in between the pews. When she passes Liz, Martha, and I, I hear her murmuring to herself.

"They come, they come." She whispers, "The mark must hold, must hold. Oh, Carolina knows, she must help. Carolina, Carolina…" Suddenly, she stiffens. "The magic, the magic!" she calls to no one in particular. She resumes her moaning once more, "They come, come, come…"

I look around me at the cowering girls. Amid the huddled bodies on the ground, I stand up. "Are we just going to sit here while Gemma gallivants about, perfectly safe and fearless? Don't you understand? This is all her fault." Martha tugs at my skirt, embarrassed.

"Cec, you're making a fool of yourself." She whispers.

But Lizzie gets up beside me, just as I knew she would. "She's ruined everything." She wails, "Our lives, this whole school, the world!"

"Girls," Nightwing calls from the back pew, too drained to get up, "A lady does not speak ill of others!"

The little ones close their eyes once more, shutting out the world around them. Liz sits down. I, however, almost run up to Nightwing, my eyes livid. "What's going on here?" I shriek at her, "Why won't you tell us!" I break down into sobs. "Why why why…"

"Hush now, my girl." Nightwing murmurs, perhaps to soothe me, perhaps to chastise me. "It will all be over in the morn. That's all that I may tell you, but have faith, darling."

_No,_ I want to say. _I cannot. I have no faith here._ Surely, she must have seen, she must know. How in the chapel, when we pray, I don't go along, don't say the words. Because I have a secret. My parents have lied about our family roots to get me to this school, so I must say as such. But sometimes I feel like telling people. It feels wrong to lie. I had been planning on telling Fee and Pip and Liz, but… then she came, that filthy Gemma Doyle. And now I can never tell anyone. I now what secrets can do. They rot you from the inside, but when you tell people they abandon you. No, I cannot say.

I am Jewish. My family claimed to be Christian so Spence would accept me. But I do not want to lie any more.

Suddenly, Mother Elena ceases her wanderings. She looks up, her head bending back and back. I fixate my eyes upon her, my wallowing forgotten. She lets out a quiet moan, that becomes a cry, that becomes a shriek of agony. Her hand flies to her chest, over her heart. She wails and falls to the floor of the chapel. Nightwing races to her, suddenly, full of strength. "Her heart, her heart!" she shouts. Elena writhes, and then is still.

The girls cry out and Mrs. Nightwing pulls a hand mirror from her pocket. She holds it before Elena's mouth and there is no fog upon the glass. For once, the very first time all night, Nightwing allows herself to cry. She bends her head and weeps. I curl up with Liz and Martha and try to sleep.

Time passes in the oddest fashion. Hours seem like seconds, and vice versa. After what seems like forever, the door creaks open and Gemma enters, along with four others, who I cannot see in the weak light.

They exchange some talk, then Nightwing asks, "Sahirah? Did they get Sahirah?"

Now I see that McCleethy is not with them. Oh, so our art teacher had a code name. Tonight is full of surprises.

They all step into the light. I see Ann and Fee, the scarred man, Gemma and the boy. Now I notice the way Gemma touches him is far more than polite with company. Actually, far beyond polite in any circumstance. She's breaking all the rules, even speaking to that Indian.

"You must take away the memories." Nightwing pleads to her.

Gemma sighs. "All right. Why should they have to worry about something more than what to wear to the spring ball or how many crumpets it is _really_ appropriate to eat in public?"

The boy smiles, "Five or six is tolerable, but experts say only four are really appropriate."

Nightwing grimaces, "You and Kartik may carry on your comedy festival elsewhere." Kartik. So he has a name. An Indian one. Well, this Kartik is curved around Gemma in a rather obscene way. I gasp, as well as a few others, as he bends to kiss her hair and then whisper in her ear. She turns and their lips meet, briefly, but sweetly. Nightwing flutters her fan and looks at the ground, tutting. I should feel shocked, disgusted. I try, but cannot. Because I want that. I want someone to love me and call me beautiful. I want a moment like that, a lover like that. I want someone to love me. Because to be loved, wanted, I have found, is the greatest feeling of all.

We are gathered and sent to bed.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

My eyes snap open. "Oh, Liz," I say to her, who is already up and dressing. "I've simply had the strangest dream."


End file.
